


Negative Correlation

by writingandchocolatemilk



Series: RusEng Oneshots [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America Lusting After Russia, But England and Russia Banging, France Feeling Sorry For / Lusting after England, Love Triangles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: "You know," Russia said, stealing England's cigarette and taking a drag, "you aren't very attractive."
England recoiled. "Excuse me?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous said :** Maybe RusEng with some jealous FrUS?  <3 (Your writing is amazing. I enjoy reading it whenever I can!)

_When you hold me close,_

* * *

"You know," Russia said, stealing England's cigarette and taking a drag, "you aren't very attractive."

England recoiled. "Excuse me?"

Russia laughed, sitting up in bed, getting into it. "Well, yes. You are boney and pale, and your eyebrows are not, ah, conventionally attractive."

England scowled, trying to grab his cigarette back. "Hey, you're an asshole, did you know that? Fuck you."

"You already did," Russia said brightly, returning the cancer stick. "But, anyway, to my point."

"Oh, I'm glad that there's a point to your insult."

Russia grinned. "Anyways, you realize France and dumbo have been glaring at me and you during meetings, yes? They are very, ah…" He curled his fingers through the air. "Jealous. Isn't that funny?"

England glared out the motel's window. "And  _why_  exactly did you call me ugly?"

"Oh, well, you aren't very attractive. Funny they would be jealous, no?" Russia settled back into the pillows, point being made.

"You know, if you don't find me attractive, you don't have to fuck me." England felt goosebumps run up his arms. "At least have the decency to not fucking insult me to my face."

Russia sighed good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. "Come now—"

"No, fuck this. I don't need this." England stood, stooping down and looking for his clothes under the bed.

Russia rolled on his stomach, arms hanging off the bed in front of England's face. England slapped them out of the way, pulling on his underwear. Russia scoffed, resting his face in his hand.

"England," Russia sing-songed.

"Fuck you. I don't know why I put up with this shit." The pants, now. "You're a dick."

"Hm." Russia raised an eyebrow. "You ever think it's because you like assholes? And you like feeling bad about yourself?"

England stared at him.

"You're blushing." Russia smiled. "You're quite the masochist. It's an endearing trait, and I don't mind feeding into it. You're cute mad, and you're cute when you feel bad about yourself."

England snapped his gaze downwards, tugging on his pants, shoes. Ash from his cigarette fell on his hand, and he hissed, standing.

"Until next time," Russia called as England slammed the door.

* * *

"Yo, England."

England nearly slammed his head on the table. He shuffled the papers in front of him, taking a deep breath, but by the time he turned to respond, America was already taking a seat, opening his mouth and continuing.

"So, like, what's up with you and Russia?"

England blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't believe any of that—that information is your business."

America laughed, loud and plastic, teeth straight and white. He leaned forward, arm resting on his knee. "Nah, come on, you and I both know something's going on between you two. I'm not an idiot."

England's head shot back. "Again, I don't believe any of that is  _any_  of your bloody business."

"Are you two fucking?" America asked, scratching the back of his head, jaw clenching and unclenching.

England stared at him. "You're an utter ass. I'm going to keep repeating myself until you understand me: none of your business, none of your business, none of—"

America pushed himself away from the table, walking away with hands on his hips, head bent slightly. Russia padded by, smiling at the superpower. America stopped, and the two exchanged words, heads bent close together.

Then, America kept walking.

Russia sat next to England, replacing America. "Good morning, England. You are looking very awake for our late night last night. I brought you a coffee, because I was assuming you would be very worn out."

England hesitated—but the caffeine headache decided for him. He took a sip, grimacing. "And what were you and America talking about?"

Russia gave a vague shrug. "Oh, he was being his usual self. Asking me about cock-enlargers. You could say thank you for the coffee."

"I hate coffee. It's just funny, saying you thought he was jealous…" England took another sip of coffee. "And then you talk to him. Don't stir the flames."

Russia examined his fingernails. "Why do you care?"

England blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said, why do you care? I can speak to America all I want."

"And when he pounds my face in?"

Russia made a face. "Oh, Alfred wouldn't do that."

England laughed. "Alright, sure, you believe in that little story in your head, right up until he throws a bitch fit and sanctions one of us because he—he, well, he's jealous." England massaged his eyes.

"And France?"

England looked up. "What about him?"

Russia shrugged.

"Nothing. What would France care?" England sighed. "I'm really not in the mood to talk. Talk about any of this. I just want to get through this meeting and fly home."

Russia smiled. "I know what would relax you."

England scoffed. "No quickies in the bathroom, thanks."

"I know for a fact you have not been opposed to it in the past." Russia reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. "But I was talking about a quick shot in your coffee. To take the edge off, yes?"

Adrenaline shot through England's fingers. "No, thanks," he muttered, taking another stabilizing sip of coffee.

Russia wiggled the flask, tantalizingly close to England's fingers. "Come now—"

France's voice: "England."

England's head snapped to his left. France was leaning on the other side of the table, face neutral.

"A word," France said in his native tongue, "in private, if you will."

France led them outside the conference room, the hallways less crowded, and England felt the tension leave his shoulders. He hadn't realized how he had been sitting next to Russia.

"We haven't spoken in a while," France said. "How is everything?"

England barked out a laugh. "Things could be better. I hate meetings in Asia—the time zones…" England waved his hand.

"And Russia?"

The smile fell from England's face. "What about him?"

France's face and voice were still soft. "You've been under a lot of strain. What with the recent vote, the conservatives, Spain,  _then_  Russia." He ran a hand through his hair, looked England up and down. "And it's not as though I haven't seen you at the cocktail hours."

England's lip pulled into a sneer. "Well, thanks for your concern."

France sighed, softly. "I am concerned. Terribly concerned, for your work, for you and your personal relations, for  _you_ , Arthur. Don't fault me on that."

They stared at each other, long and tense. But…

England looked away. "Alright."

"Coffee, tonight?" France touched England's arm. "If only for a few minutes."

England nodded. "Alright," he sighed.

"I'll text you the address."

* * *

England ended up in a bar, like he always did. He didn't speak Japanese, and the bartender gave him random drinks that were green and blue and pink.

He fumbled for his phone, fumbled for the buttons that were too small for his fingers, for the words that wouldn't come.

"Hey," he slurred.

"Ah, let me guess," Russia said brightly, "you are in a bar, very, very drunk."

England's face slid on the wood of the bar, pulled his cheek. "Be nice."

Silence on the other end.

"Ivan?"

"What?"

"Will ya' come find me? It's by the place. The hotel."

"I supposing I will."

The bartender cut him off—or England ran out of the spending cash in his pocket. He couldn't remember, head on the bar, what came first. His mouth was dry, his head was spinning, limbs light.

"Arthur?"

England dragged his gaze up. "You came."

Russia sighed. He grabbed England's arm and threw it over his shoulder, dragging him away from the stool and out into the night.

"You thought I wouldn't come to find you? You're going to get mugged in this state." Russia readjusted England. "Can I ask what prompted this drinking?"

England laughed. "Not tellin' you, you'd just get fucking bloddy—bloody pussed."

Russia grunted. "I will not forgive you if you throw up on me. You will be on your own. I swear."

England laughed again. "You're a fuckin' cunt."

"I suppose so. You will be sleeping in my room."

"You're not so bad."

Russia glanced at him. "You are drunk."

"You're not so bad, even though you like fuckin' fucker better than me." Nausea rolled around England's stomach. "Sorry I called you."

"I expect a blowjob."

"I might throw up on your cock."

"Deal."

* * *

_pretend like you don't want to let me go._


End file.
